


You Make Lovin' Fun

by mrwonderwoman (fem_castielnovak)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: #100to10000, Ass Play, Body Shots, Established Relationship, Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Foreplay, M/M, Making Love, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Sensual Garbage, Shower Sex, literally just porn, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 07:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14208288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fem_castielnovak/pseuds/mrwonderwoman
Summary: Phil and Clint break out their"Love is Art" kitand absolutely have at it.





	You Make Lovin' Fun

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this for Valentine's Day but I'm still feelin' the love and hopefully in one way or another you are, too
> 
> This is a sequel to [Dear to Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11935440) but it's absolutely a PWP and can be read totally on it's own.

 

 

The paper billows and snaps when Clint rolls it out. He's careful about keeping the end uncurled and smoothing it down as it tries to re-ravel itself. Phil watches him from the corner of his eye as he finishes lighting the last of the candles. When the wick catches, he sets the lighter aside and moves to the refrigerator, taking out a well-chilled bottle and bringing it back to the counter to uncork. The canvas sighs as Clint flattens out the bubbles and lumps in its surface. Phil admires the span of his arms and shoulders, and the dip of his back as he stretches to reach the corners.

Clint looks up at him when the cork pops and they hold eye contact - watching each other as Phil pours the champagne. It captures the tension between them, where it had been intangible moments before, it now feels real; the sound of liquid filling glass narrating the build. Phil is the one to break it as he turns away to set the bottle and flutes down on the floor beside the rest of their supplies, out of the way but in reach. When he turns back, Clint is uncapping the paints and putting them off to the side.

They've chosen to do this in the kitchen, essentially because they needed an open space and the dining set was the easiest furniture to move. The tile is going to make cleanup easier too, which is a plus. And they have enough practice from spontaneous, hungry moments to be more than familiar with how sex works on this floor.

Phil crosses the room to turn out the overhead light. The lack of illumination is going to lend some mystery to their end product, and Phil finds himself excited for that aspect. He looks down at their supplies and finds himself wanting to slide across the inviting clean canvas and leave a black smear mark in his wake. He flips the switch.

There are candles and tea lights strewn across just about every flat surface in here and in the relative darkness, it gives the room a soft and beautiful glow. It gives _Clint_ a soft and beautiful glow. Phil walks back to where he's seated, legs tucked loosely under him and off to the side. His skin is golden where the shadows don't touch - and there's so _much_ of it. They're both down to their underwear but Clint looks more than naked like this. Passive and relaxed, hearing aids set up on the counter so they don't get messy.

The protective tarp they've got underneath the canvas crinkles as Phil kneels to sit down beside Clint.

"Hi," Clint whispers, reaching out to absently glance fingertips across the bare skin of Phil's hip.

"Hi," Phil says back, his voice a low purr that might be embarrassing this early in the game if it weren't the reaction he always had to Clint being sweet and tender.

The mood has taken a distinct shift from the eager excitement of when he'd brought home the extra bottles of purple and silver paint to go with the black one in the kit, and used them to proposition Clint.

Phil reaches out beyond the edge of the tarp for the champagne where he'd set it earlier.

"Before we get too messy," he says and holds out a flute towards Clint. Clint takes and tilts it to clink against Phil's. He takes a long sip from it and quietly smacks his lips when he's done - surely more tempting than he realizes. Phil takes a second swallow then sets his own glass aside to lean forward and steal a searing kiss. His empty hands come up to cup Clint's jaw and Clint makes a muted sound as Phil renews the contact. He stretches off to the side - putting down his glass, Phil assumes, because he leans into the gesture, tracing the seam of Phil's lips with his tongue. It hadn't been a long day but Phil is happy to let every moment of it divorce itself from his present mind state and fade away at the behest of Clint's affection.

He isn't expecting the stripe of cold that makes contact with his ribs.

Still holding Clint's face, he backs off and looks down at two incriminatingly purple fingers hovering just over a thick stripe of paint on his side. He looks up at a grinning Clint and doesn't bother with anything other than grinning right back.

"You're slipping, sir; one little kiss and I got the jump on you. It's a crying shame." Without looking, Clint reaches down for the waistband of his shorts. Phil mirrors the action. 

"And here I was thinking you were only starting without me." He watches Clint read his lips even in the dim candlelight.

Clint touches the spot of color and smears it further across Phil's skin, "Is there a difference?"

"Who's to say I'm not just letting you get away with a little more nonsense than usual." Phil leans back in for a kiss as he finishes shedding his underwear.

"Because," Clint says just before their lips touch. They break after a lengthy moment and Phil knows better than to think Clint's lost his train of thought when it comes to good banter. "You know if you did that, I'd start to get ideas."

"I don't think there's anything wrong with that. I've liked quite a few of your ideas recently," Phil says low but with enough annunciation he isn't worried about Clint understanding him. He moves in for more kissing and Clint's only response is willing lips and an accepting hum. His kisses migrate back across Clint's cheek when Clint starts playing with the wet stripe on his side.

"Hand me the silver," he says close enough to Clint's ear to be heard before nipping just behind the bolt of Clint's jaw and blazing a trail down the length of his neck. Clint arches into it, and apparently manages to reach for the tube of paint at the same time, as it makes its way into Phil's hand rather quickly.

Phil takes it firm and deft in one palm, and plants the other in the center of Clint's chest, pushing him away gently. Clint watches him with heated, hungry eyes as the directive touch presses him down and back. Phil watches in return, and moves with him as he reclines until he's crouched above him; semi-predatory with one arm between the crook of Clint's elbow and the wall of his ribs. Phil focuses on the low thrum of energy between them as he rolls the bottle of paint in his hand.

"Where to begin," he muses, purely for the lopsided grin Clint unfailingly responds with. He makes a bit dramatically for Clint's mouth but at the last minute, shifts his aim and plants a smack on Clint's Adam's apple. Clint huffs a laugh and disturbs the contact but Phil's already moving. He marks an overlapping path down the length of Clint's throat, carefully orchestrating grazes of teeth and hints of tongue. A kiss to the divot at the base of his neck has Clint laying a gentle palm to the crown of his head and sighing contentedly as he kisses along the lines of his collarbone in both directions.

When he pulls away, Clint arches after him but Phil uses the hand still against his sternum to push him back down. With a flick he uncaps the paint and drags his hand down to Clint's stomach. The other holds the bottle and moves to retrace Phil's path - starting close and sweeping quickly aloft in a drizzle of silver, perfectly outlining his clavicle. Phil puts the bottle in the space between Clint's ribs and arm and brings his thumbs up to the divot of his collarbone. He presses down on the vulnerable spot for a moment - watches Clint's eyes and hears his breath hitch at the pressure - then slides his thumbs out over the cool, thick trail, smearing the sparkling silver paint all the way out to the ball of Clint's shoulders in both directions.

He leans back, lifts his wet thumbs away and trails clean fingers down across Clint's clean torso. They round the sides of Clint's body to rest on persistent if barely discernible love-handles and his wet thumbs land on the crests of his pelvis. He rubs a small circle on both sides before extending his thumbs and stretching his palm and fingers after them to mark out his Adonis lines in remnant silver. The line streaks and dissipates as the paint presses into the minute grooves of both their skin and Phil reaches for more paint; this time going for the black. He uses his thumbs again, accenting the existing streaks with shadow-like black ones just beneath them, then goes back in with two clean, silver-dipped fingertips over the first set. A third time, he coats his thumbs in silver, moving back up to Clint's clavicle.

Clint stretches out his arm and his fingers scramble for the purple paint tube. Phil continues to stretch the silver lines, disturbing the tiny variations of sparkling swirls. Clint wets one palm, massaging it against itself and checking the coating before turning it away from himself and pressing a flat, violet palm to Phil's chest. It manages to both glue down the hair and leave some of it standing out as Clint pulls his hand away. He sets it lower on Phil's side, distinctly separate from the first mark, and with the other, reaches again for the paint. He holds up the small opening of the bottle's lid to Phil's sternum and squeezes - a flow dripping down his stomach and pooling in his bellybutton. His colored hand settles half away from its spot on Phil's side; lax, fingers curled absently. Phil tries not to move too much as he goes for the black paint once more. Clint's clean hand drops the bottle to the side and reaches for the fresh, purple line, kissing the stream with his fingertips.

Phil lathers his own fingers with the black paint and lands them in the divots of Clint's sides. He slides them through the spaces between Clint's ribs - down and around the front with careful precision - as they both take deep inhales. At the end of the gaps, he follows the curve of bone up to the base of Clint's sternum. His hands lift away from the warm skin as if of their own volition - moving up to where the lines of silver touch the balls of Clint's shoulders. He continues his pursuit of symmetry, finding the mirroring on his living canvas fascinating. In more black he marks off deltoids, and biceps, and triceps, and the divots of elbows. And when the paint runs dry, he blindly takes up one of the tubes and marks purple three-fingered streaks down bare forearms, as his eyes stay locked on a blissed expression.

Clint's fingers against his side curl and uncurl again, reassuring even as his other hand lies still atop his solar plexus. There's no pressure but it makes him feel a little vulnerable - the stillness. He leans into the touch anyways, welcomes the sudden pressure as he bends down for a deep kiss. For the first time, he settles his dirty hands on the bare canvas as he supports himself. Clint reaches up with the hand from Phil's side to hold Phil close at a spot high between his shoulder blades. Their kiss breaks off with twin sighs and Phil trails down to the side of Clint's throat. The spot below the base of his neck doesn't feel wet but Phil hopes Clint leaves a mark there at some point - he keeps finding vulnerable places on Phil's body, seemingly without meaning to.

Phil leans back enough to get a good look again and lifts his palms from the canvas - lets them drift down to settle on the tops of Clint's thighs. There's enough paint on them still to squelch as he drags his hands down a bit and gives a squeeze to both sets of muscle. In their wake, his hands leave purple-black marks nearly half as appealing as the ones Phil typically leaves between Clint's legs. His mouth waters, thinking about the salt taste of the delicate skin there. He bends down for another kiss. Clint whimpers and digs his grip into the shoulder blade his hand has slid down to. Then he breaks the kiss and sighs another broken sound.

In a moment of creative hunger, Phil remembers the champagne. He rubs a preemptively placating hand across the blank of Clint's stomach - the only clean space left on his torso. Phil's hand is dry and rubbed clear enough not to change that. Clint, with his neck arched and his eyes closed, doesn’t seem to notice Phil's change in direction. At least, until Phil has to pick his second hand up and lay it flat on the canvas again to steady himself as he stretches. When Phil reaches out to pick up the bottle, Clint whimpers, annoyed at the delay in their proceedings and his eyes slit open to glare accusingly.

"Hush. I'm enjoying myself," Phil says airily where Clint can read his lips and tone based on his expression. Then without warning, he upends it over Clint's stomach - just enough to splash some out and have it puddle on his lower belly. Clint gasps - at the cold or the bubbles tickling his skin - but the liquid remains mostly undisturbed. With steady, heated eye contact, Phil slips his tongue out to lap it up.

Clint seems to hold his breath as Phil licks over his skin. He's slow and deliberate as his tongue sweeps again and again across one spot. He leans away enough to pour out another splash - Clint gasps again - and repeats the process. His efforts are definitely a little overkill but this evening is meant to be an exercise in indulgence.

"Champagne body shots," Clint breathes as Phil laps at his skin. "I can't fucking believe you."

"No?" Phil asks rhetorically - _teasingly_ , and this close his breath bounces hot off Clint's skin and back against his face. The soft, pale hairs on Clint's belly stand on end, and Phil pours more champagne out over them. Clint sucks in a breath and Phil tames his smile to lean back in again. He dips his tongue into Clint's bellybutton and Clint's whole body jerks at the intrusion. Phil sucks at the divot and Clint jerks again, harder this time. He rocks against Phil's mouth like he can't tell if he enjoys the sensation or not, but then groans when Phil pulls away.

"Phil," he pants. Phil plants a parting kiss on him before leaning all the way back on his haunches. He admires the mess he's only begun to make of Clint and feels a soft smile bloom on his face.

" _Phil_ ," Clint whines again reaching up to paw at the mess on his sternum.

"Let me drink you in," Phil counters, running his hands along the outside of Clint's legs.

"Haven't you had enough to drink?" he asks petulantly, nudging Phil with his leg.

Phil huffs a laugh, "I suppose so," he concedes but continues to stare for another few moments. He finally pats Clint's hip, "Roll over," he purrs - heat in his eyes, no doubt - voice low and commanding. Clint surely registers the vibrations through the hand he's got on Phil's chest. His eyes dilate and he lets out a shuddering sigh, "Yes, _sir_ ," he breathes as he acquiesces in one fluid motion.

Phil's own sigh is shaky as he spreads his hands across more unblemished skin and admires the new vista. Clint flexes and the muscles ripple beautifully under his fingers. He leans down to kiss a small dip between vertebrae as he reaches again for the silver paint bottle.

Phil thinks he's off to a good start in being more attentive to Clint - to their relationship. He's loving every minute he gets to spend doing it enough that part of him wonders why it wasn't already second nature. He blames it on his own qualms and some lack of communication between the two of them being friends and becoming lovers. But for the time being, he puts it aside.

He drops a stuttered path of kisses in the concaves of Clint's spine as he puddles the silver onto his fingers. He tries a little to catch Clint off guard by not pulling away as he lays the first silvery fingerprints to the wings of Clint's shoulders. His movements don't pause as he leans back, generously rubbing back and forth to watch the miniscule speckles of glitter shimmer in the candlelight. At first it's just smears - getting as much of his hands gliding across that beautiful skin and powerful musculature as possible. But as he gets to the edges of the flat tissue, instead of letting the paint spill down his sides, he curbs its path, starts making ovaline points and scallops, staggered down his scapulas.

Clint snorts when Phil's halfway through; "What, my eyes aren't good enough to warrant my codename? I've got to have wings too?"

Phil leans in close over him. "My little bird," he says low and affectionate right beside Clint's ear. Clint shivers and ducks his head further against the floor and his crossed arms. Phil kisses down his neck as his fingers play blindly through the paint. He sits back on his haunches when he thinks he's satisfied with his work, drawing his finger one last time across one wing to watch the lazy, dazzling movement of the shining flecks.

Phil takes up the purple next. He squeezes it over Clint's lower-middle back, drizzling loose, wide zigzags. Phil imagines that the cool, directionless sensation must feel nice against the warmth of Clint's back. He sets the bottle aside and puts his hands on either side of Clint's spine. Phil holds his breath as Clint takes a deep inhale once, twice. Then they exhale together and Phil spreads his palms. He pushes at the puddles of paint until it spills down over Clint's sides and into the dips between his ribs, coating the black stripes Phil had marked out before. He repeats the motion - drawing his hands together until they meet and pressing down as he separates them - falling into the easy rhythm of the massage.

Clint sighs, deep and contented, and Phil realizes that maybe he's brought the mood down to a calm he hadn't meant to find just yet. It's not bad; it just means he'll need to find a way to bring them back up.

He allows himself the diversion, first, of tipping one purple index finger with a heavy drop of silver and dotting the dimples at the base of Clint's spine until both of them are full of paint. Clint squirms a little, waiting, Phil is sure, for some real attention. He reaches out for the bottle of purple paint again, squeezing out enough to re-cover his hands evenly and scoots down to kneel over Clint's legs.

"Where're you going?" Clint mumbles.

Phil doesn't bother replying until he's inches from Clint's crack.

"Not far," he says as puts each of his hands on Clint's cheeks and spreads them apart. Clint won't hear him but he'll feel the puffs of air against his sensitive skin.

"Hey, no!"

Phil's hands stay locked in place but he doesn't move any closer.

"No rimming - I want to kiss you later."

Phil wants to say that he can just go clean his mouth out once he's had his fill, but knows himself well enough to be sure that he won't want to get up or leave. Eating out works Phil up just as much as giving a blowjob does for Clint.

So instead, he sighs, and then pointedly blows cool air against Clint's hole just once more before backing off. He lifts his hands from Clint's cheeks and leaves two perfect palmprints behind. Clint looks over his shoulder and down his own back to get a peek, wiggling his ass and tilting it up, smile pressing against his shoulder as he admires the marks. Phil taps his hip, making another stain, and Clint rolls back over as Phil reaches for the hand towel to wipe off some of the paint.

His hands are monitored by sharp eyes until he drops the cloth on the tile behind him and holds them out questioningly.

Clint stretches again. The fresh drips on his sides begin sliding down themselves towards Clint's back, quickly pooling onto the canvas where his skin meets the paper. His arms sweep out and to his sides and Phil only just notices him surreptitiously palm the purple bottle. Phil gives him a knowing look and Clint almost pouts, "I've barely painted you at all."

Phil's raised arms extend further, framing his torso, "Be my guest."

Clint watches Phil's mouth deliver the words, then bites his own lip and makes eye contact at Phil's response. He brings the paint bottle high over his chest, purely for effect, because he squirts it into his palm. He scoops up fingerfuls of paint and stretches his hand towards Phil's stomach until he's swiping three fingers low on Phil's stomach in a curved line from hip to hip. He skirts around touching Phil's dick and reaches down to make mirror stripes on the close curves of his upper thighs, watching for a reaction. Phil shivers and is more than aware of how his cock throbs. Clint smiles up at him smugly and raises a half-curled fist up towards Phil's face. He pauses for a beat, then puts a bright dot on the tip of Phil's nose.

"Are you sure you don't need to apply more?" he asks as Clint drops the bottle and lets his hand drift back along the shape of Phil's torso.

"Mm-mmm," Clint affirms, reaching up with one hand to hold Phil's face. It leaves Phil with wet fingers accidentally staining his cheekbones for which he gets a quiet "Oops," in apology as he's pulled into a kiss. Phil hums in satisfied resignation as the distinct sensation of a painted handprint is marks itself on the back of his neck - he'd signed up for exactly this sort of thing when he'd brought the kit home.

Phil's cock drags against the crest of Clint's hip and he leans into it. Clint sighs into the next kiss and wraps his arm low across Phil's back, holding their hips together. They end up rutting against each other; cocks rubbing and swaths of paint smearing between meeting skin. It's exhilarating and part of him wants to make it last a little longer. But the greater part of him feels like they've drawn this out long enough.

Phil reaches behind himself for the handcloth again. He keeps his movements out of Clint's sight just for the sake of it as he unwraps and rolls on a condom. Clint keens and holds on tighter.

"I don't think we were supposed to actually be having sex while we painted this." Phil has absolutely no intention of putting an end to their fun here, but he feels like he should at least point this out; "The painting is probably just meant to be foreplay."

"Fuck I'm too keyed up - don't make me stop now," he whines. "If you hadn't wanted to fuck, you wouldn't have brought out the body oil. We can paint over anything incriminating later."

Phil hums, feigning speculation but Clint whines again. "You're too tempting," he grumbles low and close to Clint's ear but it comes out more as a growl at anything. "You've got me sounding so fucked out just from putting my hands all over you," he says right against the soft skin below Clint's ear, "We've barely even done anything." He reaches for the body oil - notes the stick of silver against the slick plastic of the bottle. "And I'm so fucking desperate to bury myself in your ass."

Clint lets out a short moan and he's quick to follow it with another longer one when Phil's clean hand slips up the skin of his inner thigh.

"C'mon, please," he pants as Phil touches his hole.

He holds the gentle pressure just a moment longer, then spears his fingers into Clint in one go.

"Yeah," Clint sighs. His own relatively sticky fingers skate up Phil's arms leaving barely visible marks. "I hope you know," he says imperiously, "you'll be doing all the work here."

"Oh?" Phil asks patronizingly as he fucks into and out of Clint's hole.

"I'm just here to make a mess," Clint grins lasciviously and humps upward, his cock grazing Phil's arm. Phil doubts if Clint will be able to hold out on that tonight - he seems too eager and revved up. But Phil's more than happy to play service-top whenever Clint asks for it.

"Very well," he says looking down and wetting a third finger that he pushes inside his boyfriend without warning.

Clint gives a little grunt and bears down against the new pressure. Phil's pace is unrelenting and only just fast enough to start getting them anywhere.

One of Clint's hands falls away from Phil's upper arms, and then the other follows. He arches up, reaching for the purple paint - stretching far and looking beautiful, completely sapping any motivation Phil might have to pause his own work and help him. Clint finally curls his fingers around the tube and sighs as he holds it and takes a minute to rock up and down on Phil's fingers. Then, momentarily sated, he lets Phil get back to bearing the brunt of the work as he uncaps the tube. He pours a glob onto his hands, dropping the bottle then rubbing them haphazardly together. Phil gives his fingers one hard curl - takes Clint off guard with the attention to his prostate, and earns a hiss in reaction, before he pulls his fingers out and is lining himself up with Clint's hole. He pats Clint's hip twice and Clint nods.

"Yes," he says, widening the vee of his legs and lifting them up onto Phil's shoulders as he leans in close and presses his cock to Clint's hole. Clint slings his arms under Phil's and plants his hands against Phil's shoulder blades. As Phil presses in, beyond the heat and wet of Clint's ass he registers wet palms dragging down the length of his back, becoming two mismatched, patchy smears just above his ass.

"Shit, I love how fucking flexible you are," Phil tells him pulling in and out with forceful precision.

"I - _uh_ -" Clint grunts, "I f-fucking love how hard you go- yes."

"I think-" Phil says, planting one hand in the silver-black lines he'd made on Clint's side, "I think you just like how hard you make me. How hard I get for you."

" _Yes_ ," Clint chokes out, "That too- _fuck_."

"How I can be so carried away as soon as I've got you under me." Sex makes it so much easier to be open about himself and his feelings. What's reassuring is that Clint seems to be the same way.

"You don't get carried away," Clint argues. "Ah- Carried - _unh_ \- away - _shit_ \- makes it _sound_ like you go too _far_." His words gain emphasis with Phil's thrusts. Clint clenches around him and Phil slows down to follow the mood. "You're perfect with me. Careful, but not like I'm made of glass. Just- _fuck_ \- just perfect."

He keeps his pace but Christ, that confession has him winded. Clint's open heart never fails to leave Phil feeling unbelievably prideful and powerful and breathless at once. There are so few people Clint trusts himself with this way and he's one of the lucky bastards who's been gifted the privilege. He composes himself enough to respond.

"Ah, see, but I mean it in the other sense." Phil stops, pulled nearly all the way out and plants a lingering kiss in a clean space just above Clint's collarbone. "I mean," he presses another kiss above the first and another above that, then sweeps his tongue up the side of Clint's neck to the bolt of his jaw, "that I lose myself to the way I feel about you. That you bury me in my own emotion. In my own enthusiasm and affection for your enjoyment." He slowly pushes all the way back in. Clint groans and Phil presses himself forward even though there's less than no room left. It has Clint sucking in a tight breath and clutching his fingers in the paint-marked muscles of Phil's shoulders.

Then his whole body clenches up, wrapping tighter, and Clint, impaled on Phil's cock, is rolling the two of them over and over across the canvas.

Their motions become a wild, tandem flurry; pointed thrusts and hungry mouths, hands straying from locked grips, broken rolls as they change positions and pause to enjoy different angles.

Clint keeps clamping down and Phil has to distract himself - intent on holding out, wanting to make sure that Clint comes first. He reaches for the nearest tube, and as best he can, one-handedly squeezes it onto his own palm. The fairly empty bottle takes a few goes before it produces anything and Phil watches at the black flecks drip and sputter out onto the canvas with the first empty puffs of air. Clint's arm shifts and smears through the tiny freckles and Phil again drops the bottle in favor of getting his hands back onto the man beneath him. He only manages to make contact for a second before Clint intercepts one and rubs it between his own hands, swiping up the majority of the black coating.

"Get your own," Phil says, pulling his hand back to re-coat the black.

Clint reaches for one of the other tubes, squeezing the circle of his hips around Phil's waist a little, as Phil goes back in to start applying fresh marks.

Clint pours out paint onto himself, turning his body into a make-shift palette. "Now I've got my own, here's some for you too," he says, holding the bottle up and dripping some onto Phil.

"Thanks," Phil replies, but the way he follows it up with a kiss essentially negates the sarcasm he'd managed in his tone.

"Any time," Clint says as he presses his hand to the messy line until it squelches between his fingers.

And the next few minutes become consumed with the two of them stealing thick daubs of paint, fresh from the other's palms, or from old marks on their bodies and reapplying it elsewhere. They're backtracking to foreplay again despite still being connected at the pelvis. An interlude of sorts - fun and a little competitive.

Phil can't keep his mouth off of Clint though, and that is a path that only leads to derailed intent. He had meant to keep making a pointed mess of the other man. But there are alternative ways to doing that; more effective than continuing to paint him would be. He sucks and bites at Clint's lips and as easily as he'd been side-tracked, Phil falls back into railing him.

The mess-factor seems to have increased exponentially in the last few minutes and it doesn't look to be coming to a close anytime soon. Hungry fingers push through dollops laid fresh on the skin of their stomachs and ribs and shoulders. Wayward spots land on necks and elbows and love handles and knees because of desperate, quick moving hands more focused on gripping than what errant marks they might be making.

Phil's breathing goes ragged at the same time Clint starts making soft, desperate noises, which leaves Phil not much better off. Clint pushes up against him half-heartedly, like he wants to change positions again but can't be bothered to do it by himself. Talking is what's going to help them finish this tonight, Phil thinks.

"The sounds you make..." he croons.

" _Phil_ -"

"Love hearing you. Love knowing I can do that to you."

Clint makes a low noise.

"Can't wait to have this picture up on display - proof of how much we love each other," he hears how ridiculous he sounds but can't bring himself to stop. "I don't need it, but I want it. Always wanna show you off," his voice getting slurred with eagerness and loss of breath.

"Fuck," Clint's fingers bite into Phil's muscles, "Want that too. C'mon, I'm so close, Phil."

"Want you closer," Phil says nonsensically and poetically. Clint's hips hitch up and Phil puts his weight on one side as he wraps the other arm low across Clint's back to hold their groins together. Clint moans and pushes back hard on Phil's dick, arching his back as he comes.

Phil holds and fucks him through it, but ends up falling to the side he's braces himself on. Clint goes with it, gripping Phil's biceps and continuing the roll, slow and smooth, and it's a testament to their coordination that they manage to keep going so fluidly.

Phil doesn't know if the tempo is due to fatigue or post-orgasmic haze or an intentional choice, but he lets Clint lead him through the measures, hungrily exchanging kisses and reveling in the way he's clenching his ass around Phil's cock until Phil finds an easy, gentle climax.

There are no recognizable shapes by the time they stop moving. Phil stares out at the mess beyond the end of his nose. The once-white canvas is now a mess of overlapping handprints and assprints and kneeprints. Dots of finger tips swept and swirled - pressed then dragged across the canvas. Repeating, faded patterns where they've rolled over marked by thick, cutting lines of shoulderblades, wide elbow smudges, and long sweeping smears of shinbones like timelapsed clockhands.

Phil withdraws carefully from a fucked-out Clint, finding some reserve of strength which he uses to sit up. A quieting hand to Phil's stomach as he ties off the condom has Phil collapsing as soon as he's sure there won't be a gross spill. They lay on their backs side-by-side, panting until Clint breaks the quiet:

"Total indulgence two date nights in a row? You’re spoiling me."

Phil sighs and turns his head to look at Clint, “That’s the idea.”

"Shit, Phil," he reaches for the undisturbed champagne glass, and props himself on one elbow, "When you do romantic, you really do romantic." He throws his head back and takes a long sip that just leaves Phil admiring the line of his throat again. As Clint draws the glass away from his mouth, Phil leans up and crowds close to him once more. Clint sets the drinkware on the floor and Phil reaches out to touch the purple spots on Clint's cheek where his own nose had touched as they kissed. Clint brings his hand up to cup the side of Phil's neck, smiling at whatever expression Phil must have on his face. He leans in to steal yet another kiss.

He purses his lips together as he draws away, savoring the sweet flavor of Clint's mouth. He starts to stand up and Clint readily follows. They both glance down at the finished canvas, looking it over, but it's too dark to really make anything out.

"C'mon," Phil says, reach out to help him up, "let's go take a shower and get the paint out of your ass."

"Round Two!" Clint positively hollers, giving a fistpump as he charges towards the bathroom.

Phil is a little slower, pausing to scoop up the champagne bottle and flutes and setting them down on the bedside table before he joins his boyfriend in the already-steamy shower stall.

They spend a thorough amount of time rinsing each other off. The rushing water makes it harder for Clint to hear, so most of their tandem bathing is quiet, and tonight is no exception. Phil loves it - the warm atmosphere and the closeness. He kisses Clint, then takes a moment to admire the liberal and stubborn paint marks that will need more than just water running over them to come off. Clint reaches out and puts a hand to his pec, running his thumb over a silver streak - some of it caught in chest hair. Phil smiles softly, leaning into the touch, then further for another kiss as he settles his grip around Clint's waist.

A nudge to his arm is what eventually pulls him away. Clint's pressing the bottle of body soap against him in an obvious hint to get on with things. And in a coincidental mimicry of their evening activities, they gather palmfuls of liquid soap and start to lather.

Phil starts with the places he most immediately wants to get his mouth on; his hand fits in a loose ring around Clint's throat. Without any real pressure, he strokes up and down until the skin slowly clears. Clint, meanwhile, around his excited, hitched breathing caused by Phil's ministrations, scrubs at the glimmering silver in Phil's chest hair. Phil thinks he's still a few years shy of that being naturally warranted.

The lines on Clint's collar are just as nice to remove as they were to put on. Maybe they should've brought a washcloth with them, but there's no rush and they can take their time scrubbing. Phil ends up palming Clint's pecs as Clint continues to work. He's already spent a good portion of his evening this way, but it's pretty great to just continue to spend a purposed amount of time feeling Clint up.

Phil's fingers only move up to Clint's face when Clint starts carefully massaging the back of Phil's neck to get off the palmprint he'd left there. When Clint's forehead is clean, Phil sighs and presses his against it. He looks down at the colors swirling and dripping off their skin; muted shades of violet rivulets streaming down their legs that become sparkling, black-darkened royal purple puddling around their feet before whorling down the drain.

He leans back as Clint's thumb comes up to scrub behind his ear. Clint laughs silently as he shows Phil a newly purple, soapy thumb and Phil is only a little surprised that he ended up getting some in that spot. And then he's laughing aloud at himself as he realizes that pressing his own forehead to Clint's clean one has only managed to get paint on it again.

Clint picks up the face wash, and with careful fingers they dissolve oils and colors from cheekbones and chins and the bridges of noses. Shampoo seems like too much of a bother, but for the sake of their sheets, Phil swipes his hand through Clint's hair and his own a few times, confidently hoping it will be enough of a cleanse.

He lands a kiss just behind Clint's ear as his hands slip back down Clint's body. Arms loosely ring his shoulders as he grips the meat of thick thighs. Phil tucks his face into the dip below Clint's jaw and makes himself at home. Clint curls his head towards him, sighing wildly as Phil works the delicate skin both there and just between his upper legs.

They've both become aroused again but their cocks go ignored for the moment. Clint starts more-than-absently swiping at his upper-back and Phil remembers that they're both still a mess. Teasing hands slip back over hips and the neat, streaked lines of ribs. With firm hands on Clint's sides and more than a little nudging, Phil gets him to turn and face away from him. He holds their torsos together with a wide-spread palm to Clint's solar plexus. Phil can't seem to get enough of touching all Clint's vulnerable places tonight and Clint very much seems to not mind.

Phil holds Clint to his chest as he runs soapy hands all over him as far as he can reach. His fingers curl and uncurl over the dips and ridges of Clint's solid torso. He cleans the balls of Clint's shoulders and all the way down his arms until he's twining their fingers together and scrubbing at the webbing between them. Phil kisses the dip of Clint's neck, aware of how Clint's been watching the progress of his hands. Clint turns and tilts their tightly held palms back and forth and lets Phil massage a tender spot on his neck with his lips.

Phil takes one of his hands back without protest from Clint and lands it once more on Clint's stomach. He strokes up far enough to run his fingertips along Clint's throat and then lets it dive all the way down. Phil bites his lip as he finally gets his hand back around Clint's cock and starts working it to more than half-hardness. Either in retaliation or encouragement, Clint starts rolling his ass back against Phil's groin. And either way, it's well met.

Clint brings their joined hands back to grip the back of Phil's upper thigh, at least partly for stability, but the angle is awkward for Phil so he lets go in favor of holding onto Clint's hip. The only thing better than watching Clint fall apart and being the one to get him there, is getting to do it twice. He strokes slow and even and thinks that the way they're posed together now is literally a gift in his bare hands.

"God, you're beautiful," Phil says quietly. Clint nuzzles his head against him. He's rock hard in the ring of Phil's fingers at this point and Phil is ready to turn him back around, but he does something with the next stroke he pulls and Clint makes a _sound_. Clint would probably be mortified if he could have heard it, but it sinks right into Phil's bones. He wants to hear it one more time - and he spends more than a moment imitating the first gesture until he gets it right and this time he draws the sound and motion out.

Satisfied, he lets his touch loosen and Clint takes the cue to turn and face him. Their arms wrap around each other's backs once more as they fall into a kiss. Phil blindly strokes and scrubs at the as yet untouched silver wings his hands find and in return, Clint traces over the purple streaks from before with handfuls of suds. Their hands end up all over each other, even standing almost too close to move as they spread and smear the thinning color. Phil pulls their groins together by the meat of Clint's ass as he feigns cleaning off the handprints and errant daubs of color that have been left there. And Clint, for his part, backs Phil into the tile of the wall before reaching down with a slick palm and cupping their dicks.

Phil leans back and soaks up the boxed-in feeling, kissing Clint's lips, and face, and neck as he works them over. Phil brings one of his hands up to stimulate Clint's nipples as he bites a gentle path up Clint's throat and lets his other hand inch towards Clint's hole. The two of them only manage to last another minute before they're both coming weakly and sagging against the cool porcelain.

It takes a long series of moments, standing in and breathing the steam before either of them can step away from the support of the wall. But together, they manage to shut off the shower and dry each other before ambling hand in hand to their bedroom.

Surprisingly, they have time to enjoy the end of their evening before sleep takes them. It consists of curling up under the covers with the light on, exchanging sign language chatter as they finish the bottle of champagne and eventually drifting off, wrapped in each other's arms.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You've reached the end of the line. Thank you for joining me on another tour of the Marvel Universe. Your attention, in addition to kudos and comments, is appreciated. Please exit safely, and mind the gap.  
> You can find me on tumblr at my [ Marvel blog](http://www.mrwonderwoman.tumblr.com).
> 
> http://www.loveisartkit.com/  
> This is my very belated Valentine's gift to you, my lovely readers.  
> Also, working on the end of this made me want to go back to trying to write a sequel for [Calico Skies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11448942), so we'll see where that goes. 
> 
> **If you liked this story you may also like:**  
> [Clone A Willy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11969721%0A) by [Avidreader6](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avidreader6/pseuds/Avidreader6)  
> [Well That's One Way to Learn Anatomy ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14152704%0A) by [TheMeaningofHaste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMeaningofHaste/pseuds/TheMeaningofHaste)  
> [Hip Kiss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8637553%0A) by [Kisleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/pseuds/Kisleth)  
> 


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